Blackthorne--Episode 97

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Seven

Prelude

“Go to the poets, they will speak to thee more

of purer creatures.”

--William Wordsworth, THE PRELUDE.

1(two shot) Buck turned to her.

2(sound cue) piano and cello.

3(medium close up) She was sitting next to the

gnarly oak, her legs folded Indian fashion, her

hands in her lap, her eyes fastened on him,

wearing a small smile.

Salina: Why don’t you take your hat off and stay

a while.

4(return to two shot) He came to her.

Buck: Don’t mind if I do--whatever the lady wants.

He took off his hat, the rawhide strap dangling, and

placed it gently in the clover. She removed her black

hat with the tassels, and placed it alongside his; two

ebon head gear, his and hers, side by side.

Salina: Put your head in my lap.

He sat down--whatever the lady wants.

He turned over and rested his shaggy head on her 

lap. He could feel the corset and her thighs beneath

her skirt. She smoothed his thick brown hair,

wrapping her long fingers in it, tugging gently.

5(cut to overhead crane shot, that descends slowly)

Buck: Thank you for lunch.

She touched his cheek, and then ran two fingers

over his full lower lip.

Salina: You are very welcome

6(tight two-shot) He sat up and faced her.

7(sound cue) violins and harp.

He took her hands, kissed them, took her forearms

took her shoulders, then held her face. Her jade eyes

met his blue ones. She kissed his hands. He put his

mouth to hers gently. She closed her eyes and

returned his kiss, open mouthed. She put her arms

around his neck, like a woman does. He put his

strong arms around her, and he held her. She

hugged him, and he could feel her breasts pressing

against his chest.

Her hair smelled clean and fresh, and faintly of 

perfumed soap. He could smell himself, and he

lamented the work sweat he wore. She only

smelled a man. He ran his hands through her

long hair, rubbing her neck. She looked up, and

he kissed again, passionately. She reciprocated

his ardor. He unbuckled his gun belt, and

plunked it into a brass pile. She put her arms

around his neck again. She playfully kissed his

nose, his eyes, his chin, and his neck.

Salina, breathless: Careful, you keep this up, and
I may have to eat you alive.

Buck: I’ve wanted you since the first moment I 

laid eyes on you.

Salina: If you take this ride, you may be sorry you

let me have my head.

Buck: Let ‘er rip. I’m pretty good at staying in the

saddle, and hell, I’ve been bucked off before.

Salina: So what are we going to do about this?

Buck: We could rut like rabbits, or back off and

pretend we’re both still virgins.

Salina: I think you know that the bloom’s off this

rose.

Buck: Nothing left but the hard pit on this cherry.

Salina: I could tell you though, it feels different with

us. You make feel unblemished.

Buck: Different?

Salina: I could tell you that you’re the one I’ve been

waiting for, that every man who has ever touched me

was just preparing me for you.

Buck: Pretty good line. I could tell you I feel the same.

Salina: Do you?

8(sound cue) piano and violins.

Buck: Two peas in a pod, twins.

Salina: Whoa Hoss, how about kissing cousins?

Buck: That works for me, time to fish or cut bait.

Salina: Well, hell--let’s get to it!

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Verduous Veritas

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Verduous Veritas

“I love it when a flower, or a little tuft of grass, grows

through a crack in the concrete--it is so fucking

heroic.”--George Carlin.

Since the dawn primeval,

when the great green canopy

blacked out the sun,

creatures struggling below 

flicked their olive tongues,

still wet from licking

the dew off the moss.

I’m here to report

nature’s essence is not red,

it is deep pulsating green,

like sucking the heart

out of green tomatoes,

like penicillin, Islamic flags,

ivy and budding leaves;

or life after death,

tarter on dead teeth,

mold on sun-bleached bones,

or odiferous rot

as flesh and wood and organs

decompose,

and make their way

home,

to the earth’s verdant womb.

I have to suggest

that each of you

needs to seek out

a peaceful glen,

expanses of grass, clover

and buttercups,

then lie on your back,

eyes flashing emerald,

arms wide open to a green sun,

hearts brimming with green fire;

and let the legions tramp by

their silver armor clanking,

their bloody pilum held high, 

because even the cockroaches know

that hell and war and greed

ride a raven-black stead,

and are never green.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Magma Memories

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Magma Memories

“The time is past when mankind can selfishly draw

down on Earth’s exhaustible resources. This planet

is not a Commodity.”--Francois Hollande,

President of the French Republic.

3.54 billion years ago, this planet was just a molten

ball, and it had no surface oxygen. It took millions
of years to cool, to form a crust, and cover itself

with oceans.

Life began in the dark womb depths of the sea.

Prehistoric man emerged 3 million years ago.

Science has tread on biblical Genesis for many

centuries. Mankind’s piece of the cosmic pie

chart is just a slender faint thread of the Great

Tapestry, a glaze on a grain of sand in the

Sahara of Time.

Plate tectonics continue to reshape oceans and

continents. From 3,000 years ago to the present, 

Man has evolved into the dominant species, and

as such has become capable and guilty of

affecting global change, the biosphere, the Earth’s

surface, the hydrosphere, and the atmosphere.

Oh, what bad boys are we--now is there actually

time for redemption and reconciliation?

This old planet has

undergone drastic changes, like

the Ice Age; what’s next?

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Quagmire Awaits

Death to America--AOL.com

Quagmire Awaits

“There was a lesson taught in Viet Nam and Iraq,

and we should have learned it by now. 

--Barack Obama .

The Middle East wears the robes of Hell.

Trump has provided the hand basket.

I can hear the Liberty Bell

tolling for thousands of future caskets.

I fear there will be another war in Iran.

Please, you must understand--

Trump is a dunce led by hawks,

military action could override talks.

18 years we have been in Afghanistan.

The Islamic lions prove to be very tough,

and they thrive in the mountainous rough. 

They will continue to fight to the last man,

woman and child. Did Iraq teach us

nothing, whelped by political lies?

Forget advancing, we must seek exodus.

No more cannon fodder midst the quagmire. 

Glenn Buttkus

Quatrain

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Freten das Dummkopf

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Freten das Dummkopf

“Intrigue is the power of the weak, because even

the idiot is able to hurt.”--William Shakespeare.

When a fretter

eats a fritter,

will they use their hands?

Stay calm,

don’t fret,

no sweat--

a bad case of

Trumpitis,

will pass

through the colon

like food poisoning.

Time has just fretted

away youth, health, vigor, smooth

skin, and a tight butt.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 96

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety-Six

Onset

“Be willing to be a beginner every single

morning.”--Meister Eckhart.

1(wide shot) The ebony carriage climbed for a

half mile through clumps of fir and aspen, past

small glens dotted with riotously colored wild

flowers. The air was sweet with fir needles and

shaded grass. 

2(cut to medium wide shot) a verdant meadow;

a Mule deer doe grazed peacefully with her

spotted fawn. 

3( raise up with crane shot) the carriage passes

from right to left across the frame below the deer.

4(cut to a tighter shot) the deer; the doe raised its

head, and twitched its long ears. The fawn hopped

into a swarm of yellow butterflies on its spindly

legs, wagging its white tail.

5(overhead drone shot) The carriage dropped down 

between two large oaks.

6(sound cue) piano and cello over horse’s hooves

and spinning wagon wheels.

7(continue overhead shot, but begin descent)

They were greeted by a small lake, its water

shimmering blue-green. There were crowded

clusters of cattails at the far end of it, with

spiraling swarms of blackbirds flying above

their Spring nests, clucking in the reeds like

complaining chickens.

8(medium wide shot) the carriage rolled to a

stop at the water’s edge. The man and the

woman got out. Salina was carrying the picnic

basket and a gingham quilt.

9(cut to a two shot) from the water. Buck suddenly

drew the Thunderer and fired a shot into the air.

10(sound cue) blast of a coronet, Buck yelling

“Yahoo”, and the thunderous crack of the big

pistol echoing across the still water.

11(cut to wide shot) the cattails exploded, and

the sky darkened with blackbirds. The flock

murmurated in the air like a sidewinder, rising 

straight up, before descending in smaller and

smaller circles over the lake, winged alacrity

as they settled back into the reeds. A minute

later, the sky was barren of birds, and  their

frenzied cackling resumed.

12(sound cue) piano and violins.

13(cut to two-shot) Salina: Christ in a wheel

burrow--did you have to do that? I may have

wet myself.

Buck, turning to her, shrugging his shoulders:

Yeah, I kind of did.

Salina: You can be a bad boy sometimes.

Buck, smiling: You bring the best out of me.

14( medium wide shot) Salina spread the blanket

out in the deep shade beneath a brokeback oak,

and opened up the picnic basket--extracting a

pair of tin cups; she asked: Is the water in this

puddle good enough to drink?

Buck took the two cups to the lake and scooped

up cold clear water. He tipped one up, and gulped

a swallow: It’s fed by mountain streams. My

horses drink it.

She tucked a linen napkin into the neck of his 

shirt and they began to eat. I used to come up

here, she mumbled around biting a piece of

chicken: I would fish and daydream. You were

gone, of course. I had never met you, but your

father talked about you a lot. He was a helpless

old man at the end.

Buck: So I’ve heard.

Salina: He used to say that everyone he loved

was dead--except for you.

Buck: Well, he was confused. He was dead to me

long before he passed out in the street and was

crushed by a lumber wagon. If he loved me, he

had a peculiar way of showing it. It took me

forever to heal my own broken heart.

Salina: I’m not saying you were right or wrong

by leaving. I’m not in a position to judge.

They finished their meal. Salina packed the garbage

in some butcher paper, and tucked it into the basket.

Buck was skipping flat rocks across the glassy

surface.

Come here, she said.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Pike Place Market

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Pike Place Market

“When farming begins, the arts follow. So the

farmers are the founders of civilization.”

--Daniel Webster.

In the early 50’s,

when I was a kid,

there were no real supermarkets.

We shopped in small

Mom and Pop neighborhood markets.

There was no fast food.

You had to buy a hamburger

in a diner or a fountain lunch counter.

My mother struggled

with a meager budget.

So she always searched

for savings and bargains

in fruit, vegetables and meat.
( Have you ever eaten horse meat?

It used to be cheaper than beef.)

On Saturday afternoons,

we kids would go with Mom

on a drive into Seattle

to shop at the

Pike Place Public Market. 

It sprawls out

over four blocks,

from Pike St. to Virginia St.

It has been there since 1907,

when ten farmers sold produce

out of their wagons; making it

one of the oldest continuously operated

public farmer’s markets in America.

It is built on the edge of a steep hill

overlooking busy Elliott Bay, churning

with freighters, ferries, sailboats and cruise ships.

There are two lower levels below

the produce arcade stalls,

where orchidists, butchers, fish mongers,

and vegetable farmers hawk their wares, 

a noisy cacophony of voices

with Irish, Asian, Greek and Middle
European accents add to the din.

The lower levels contain book stores, 

craft stalls, clothing, antiques and

several exotic restaurants. 

This Market averages

more than ten million visitors annually,

making it the 33rd most visited

tourist attraction in the world.

65 years ago,

all the produce sold was locally grown,

and all the crafts were hand-made

by the sellers--but presently

China, Japan, Mexico, Central and

South America show up on the labels.

For me, Pike Place Market has become

more interested in Marketing than 
authenticity.

Fortunately, I live in the suburbs,

and I can frequent local genuine farmers 

markets; which pleases me immensely.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

LURP

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LURP

“You can kill ten of my men for every one of yours I 

kill--but in the end, you will lose and I will win.”

--Ho Chi Minh.

In 1967, I was part of a Long Distance Recon Team

(LURP) in Viet Nam. We had been in the bush for

a month. My 6 man team was part of Tiger Force, 

bad-ass paratroopers. I was a cherry, two months

out of the Recon school at Nha Trang. 

My first encounter with the VC was only one week

in. I had slunk off into the jungle to take a wicked

crap. It was mid-dump when far away, an inter-

rupted cry became a fire fight. I found my squad

pinned down by a force of VC. using my BAR, I

was able to lay down a deadly crossfire that 

turned the tide.

We had raided a village at 1300; our Charlie body

count was 41. Col. Morse would love that--he was

a mad dog motherfucker. My nightmares haunt

me still.

Glenn Buttkus

Flash Fiction

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Butt Buddies

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Butt Buddies

“I will fight for you with every breath in my body,

and I will never, ever let you down.”

--Donald J. Trump.

In the last 900 days, Trump has told 10,300 lies.

T45= Trump

BM= Mussolini

T45: I won because I love the poorly educated.

As true as global warming.

BM: Democracy is great in theory, but in practice

it’s fallacy--a Fascist’s alternate truth.

T45: Everybody loves me because I’ve always been

successful--a kick in truth’s junk.

BM: A dictator can be loved; people love a strong man.

Delusion sold as truth.

T45: We will no longer surrender America the illusion

of globalism--truth as a carbuncle.

BM: Democracy is when the people are given the 

illusion of sovereignty.--truth being sodomized.

T45: To be patriotic, there is no room for prejudice.

The truth masquerading as a lie.

BM: If people disagree with you, destroy them.

Truth twisted into a pretzel. 

T45: The press are the most dishonest, sleazy,

terrible people I’ve met--antithesis of truth.

BM: Italy’s press remains free, as long as it supports

the regime--Truth as Fascist puppets.

They are both deranged buffoons, and we already

know what his people did to Mussolini.

Ghazal

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Lullaby (goodnight my angel) - Billy Joel - With Lyrics

Lullaby in Blues

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Lullaby in Blues

“Some day we’ll all be gone, but lullabies go

on and on.”--Billy Joel.

Good night, my angel, Billy sang,

even though the villains did not hang,

and many of the punks joined the gang,

and the comic book guns said bang.

I heard it first

on the anniversary of my mother’s death,

recalling I never heard my son’s first breath,

as my actual daughter refused my parentage,

and my actual father remained a ghost,

calling my name on midnight’s tongue.

Lullabies,

I never heard them.

Lullabies,

I never wrote them, or sang them,

those damn ditties comprised 

of divers strings;

wailing violins and throbbing cellos,

all bowing that one sustained chord

that always makes me,

allows me to weep;

because of the promises

I couldn’t keep,

failing those challenges

that were too steep,

as my shredded pride 

lies in a heap,

since what’s terribly broken

runs so deep,

forcing me,

so like a child,

to muffle it all

as I sleep.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

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Dragonworld

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Dragonworld

“My scales are like ten-fold shields, my teeth 

are swords, my claws spears, my tail a thunder 

bolt, and my breath death.”--J.R.R. Tolkien.

 Somewhere.

in the vastness

of the Cosmos,

there is a

Dragonworld;

where one can find

Goldbacks,

Silver Tips,

Yellow Tails,

Black Divers,

White Wings, and

Red Bellies.

There will be

some dragon slayers

too.

Hannibal had his

elephants, but Merlin had

his fiery dragons.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44